Feral Rage
by Archangels-Werewolf
Summary: My first multi-chapter FanFic. A mouse with a hideous past crash lands on Earth and discovers that not everyone is as cruel as those from Plutark. Hope you enjoy and have a safe and Merry Christmas. :D
1. The crash landing

As mentioned earlier, this is my first multi-chapter Fanfic. Took me bloody ages to try and figure out how to divide it into chapters. Anyway, i ophe you enjoy it and have a nice day. Z.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing of the original BMFM cartoon and/or franchise, because in no way, shape or form could I come up with such an unreal idea for a TV show. I do own Spectre and Oblivion though, so if you would like to use them, please email me first.

**Feral Rage**

Chapter 1.

Red lights flashed and klaxons screamed warning at whoever was piloting that spaceship that impact was inevitable. A womans computerised voice came over a loudspeaker.

"Attention! Impact in less than-"

A single shot from a Martian-issue laser pistol silenced the voice, and while he had it out, the only being inside the ship blasted the blaring klaxons off the wall, leaving only the red lights to insult his senses.

Holstering the weapon, he shook his head trying to get the ringing out of his ears, or what was left of his ears anyway.

The spaceship thundered through the sky, glowing red against the darkness of night as the intense heat of entering Earth's atmosphere began to rise. If this was an Earth craft, the angle he was traveling on would be at such a high gravitational force that the ship would crumple and disintegrate, and the heat would take care of the rest. However, the Plutarkian steel shuttle managed to hold up to both of these issues of a crudely calculated planet entry.

Bursting through the clouds, the underskilled pilot saw that he was dangerously close to crashing into a large area that was populated by thousands of lights.

No.

He _was_ going to crash into it.

The pilots wild orange eyes frantically searched for any kind of labeled button that would try and steer clear of the light. Finally, they came to rest upon one that offered a glimmer of hope

**RETROGRADE THRUSTERS**

Shrugging, he pushed the button and felt like the ship lifted a little, as if being caught in an updraft. The retro thrusters boosted the ships altitude a little, keeping it steady, but it was still hurtling towards the city. The pilot then ran to the steering vein and pulled hard, trying to get the nose of the spaceship up.

It was going to be close.

*

It was a night game of baseball, and the stands were packed at Quigley field. Fans cheered as the next batsman come out. Bases were loaded with two out.

The Biker Mice and Charley were sitting in their usual posse in the scoreboard, scoffing root beer and hot dogs and enjoying the best view of the game. Charley wore a Nubs cap in support of their home team, and all were yelling support from where they were standing. The burly batsman took his place at the plate and waited for the delivery.

The pitcher threw.

The batsman connected.

The ball got sent flying into the sky, right towards the scoreboard. The mice's eyes widened in sheer excitement as the first opportunity to catch a home run ball presented itself.

"I got it!" called Throttle.

"I saw it first!" yelled Modo.

"It's mine!" shrieked Vinnie, easily the most excited.

The three mice shoved and pushed among themselves, trying to get to the ball. The ball got closer, and the guys all reached out at the same time to claim it as theirs, when a flash of brown hair blocked the sight of the ball. The mice fell silent, and could only watch as Charley took a diving catch right in front of them.

"Charley-girl! That was mine," said Throttle, his deep voice sounding slightly gruff. Modo looked a little bit sad as well.

Vinnie looked quite sly. "So, Charley-girl, you got the ball?"

"Yeah..." Charley said.

'I always knew you were a good catch for me, doll," the white mouse said charmingly, waggling his eyebrows.

Charley rolled her eyes at him, before turning to try and hide her blushing face.

"Uh oh, bros," said Throttle.

"What's the matter?" asked Modo.

"That," the tan colored mouse replied, pointing out the window.

All of them looked out the window to see a fiery comet come rushing at their general direction.

A spaceship.

"Well if past performance is any indication..." said Vinnie.

"That ship's last stop ever is gonna be here," Modo said.

"Let's bail, bros!" called Throttle, and they leapt onto their bikes, with Charley taking her usual spot behind Vinnie.

"Let's rock!"yelled Throttle.

"And ride!"

The three bikes blasted out the back of the scoreboard and rode out into the carpark to watch another episode of a spacecraft crashing into their home.

The thundering boom became deafeningly loud, announcing its approach. The crowd in Quigley stadium began to go into panic as they saw the rocket on a direct collision course with them.

The ship began to tilt upwards slightly, and just when everyone thought the scoreboard was going to be wiped from the face of the earth, it clipped the top of the structure and skipped like a stone on a river surface back into the air, enough to fly over the remaining residential blocks that made up Chicago.

The guys and Charley saw the whole thing.

"Well, that's a first." said Modo, who expected to be sleeping on the floor of Charley's lounge while the entire scoreboard got rebuilt from scratch.

"Awesome!" whooped Vinnie, but then recognised exactly what it was.

"Did you guys see what that was?" asked Throttle, who managed to catch a glimpse of it.

"Yeah..." said Vinnie, cracking his knuckles.

"Wait, I didn't see," chimed Charley. "What was it?"

"It was a Plutarkian shuttle," said Throttle, his voice deep with concern. "And when they arrive somewhere..."

"You know it's gonna be a pretty fishy situation," added Vinnie.

Charley hugged her arms tighter around Vinnie's waist. "Let's rock..."

The guys looked at each other in confusion, then turned to Charley.

"And...Hey, why are you guys looking at me like that?" she asked.

"Babe, this is reaaaally stupid muscley macho maniac stuff. We can't have you come with us," Vinnie stated, trying unsuccessfully to avoid being hit across the head.

"That's right Charley-girl, you might get hurt," offered Throttle.

Still no dice.

So, after thirty seconds of arguing and Charley being forcibly removed from Vinnie's bike, the guys quickly rode off after the ship.

*

Getting over the stadium was only one of three problems. The second issue involved directing it to a place where it wouldn't hurt any people. He looked out the front window and saw that with the retro thrusters burning, coupled with the skim of the ship on the scoreboard, it had given him enough air to miss the rest of the civilian housing.

There was the third problem; how to get out of the ship alive.

He pondered this for a little bit. Why did he even want to survive? His entire life had been robbed from him long ago. His identity stolen, his family gone, no friends. No cause to fight for. Hell, he wasn't even on his home planet – he'd crashed on some foreign spherical thing that looked kind of blue from outer space. And if there were inhabitants here, they would be the same anywhere – shunning anything or anyone who didn't look the same as them.

He was ripped from his thoughts when a shrieking, metallic groan sounded from the ship. If one saw from the outside, they would see the tailfin wobbling from side to side, effectively weakened following the incident with the scoreboard. Then, the outer hull of the ship began to rip apart from the intense pressure, resulting in the tailfin being torn from the main body of the ship and falling into a river. And then, the ship lost cabin pressure, and started spiralling out of control, losing altitude fast.

Suddenly, his mind turned hazy, and then he blacked out, like every other time in a high-stress situation. He ran towards the back of the shuttle, through the corridor to where the tailfin used to be and vaulted out into the summer air. He put his fingers to his mouth and whistled loudly, and was greeted by a thunderous roar of a motorcycle engine from inside the ship. Then, a headlight flashed and the motorbike flew out of the cargo hold, fire spewing from its exhaust pipes.

The Oblivion. Or Obie for short.

He grabbed the handlebars and parked himself in the saddle, before hitting the ground hard on the bike but staying upright, and slowly coming to a stop. He watched as the Plutarkian hulk plummeted down into Lake Michigan, thumping the water hard and slowly sinking into the depths.

He grabbed the helmet in the luggage container, sat it atop his head and rode off.


	2. Attempted mugging

Chapter 2

It was several years before the invasion of Mars when Spectre was abducted from his home world and tossed like an old rag doll into a life that Hell itself had nothing on. In fact, Spectre wasn't even his real name.

Born to a seamstress mother and labouring father, Spectre didn't always have all the fancy things all the other kids had. His mum made all his clothes and his father brought all the food back from the farm he worked on. The majority of their earnings went towards paying tax and schooling, so he rarely got toys to play with or other special treat. He was an only child too, his parents unable to have any more children after he was born. Despite all these things, he was still a normal kid – average height, a little on the slim side, with dark brown fur, blue eyes and a short mane.

It all began when he was nine. While exploring around his hometown, he happened across a small scouting party of Plutarkian soldiers, who were taking samples of matter from the planet to determine if it had a worthy potential of being strip-mined. After a very brief attempt at trying to leave, he was knocked out and taken by the soldiers as a final sample of what Mars had to offer.

Thats all he was to them – a sample.

And samples are taken so that knowledge can be made about particular things. They are tested. They are experimented on. They are pushed to their absolute limit till every last drop of information is extracted, so a complete picture can be presented to anyone who inquires about what a Martian Cave Mouse is.

Initially, the tests were simple enough. Blood tests. Internal scanning. Measurements. But the longer he spent with the Plutarkians, the more terrifying and horrific the tests became. And after years of experiments that were one step away from tearing him limb from limb, they had finally gotten everything they could possibly get out of him. Consequently, since there was no more use for a seventeen year old, emaciated, half-insane inhabitant of a small desert planet in the science department, he was given away as a slave to a cruel mechanic on Plutark.

It was at this point, upon presentation to the positively malodourous tradesman, that he was actually asked for his name. While with the scientists, they had always called him by his "Subject Registration Number, M-2971," which was tattooed on his right arm. After being driven crazy by the experiments for years, he had actually forgotten it.

"So? What is it?" asked the gruff Plutarkian, who called himself Biff.

He looked around the room, his eyes narrowed in a permanent frown. Finally, he looked at the mechanic, cocking his head to the side.

"Spectre," he said in a deep, deathly voice.

"Spectre?" he repeated.

"Yeah."

"What kind of name is that?"

"It means an object of terror and dread," his eyes flashed angrily. "It's what your kind have made me into."

"Really? Well, if that's the case, a little precaution may be needed here," the mechanic replied. He went to a workbench and picked up a small device with an antenna and four little prongs. Then, without warning, he grabbed Spectre by the mane and attached it to the back of him neck, the prongs digging into his flesh. He yelped.

"Welcome to Plutark, Spectre. But just remember one thing about your new life here," Biff said, taking a remote from where the device sat next to. He pressed a red button, and instantly, Spectre was overcome by a severe shock of electricity. He feel to the floor, panting.

"It's...MINE!" the stinking fish face said, and began laughing loudly.

*

Using their hydrofoil modes, the bros had rode out across Lake Michigan to where the Plutarkian ship was sinking.

"Guess it's got that sinking feeling, eh bros?" asked Vinnie.

"Yeah, yeah. Not very good at holding its water," added Modo.

"Let's hang here for a bit and see if we catch a good haul of fish," Throttle's deep voice decided.

After sitting there for five minutes, Vinnie was bored.

"Come on, Throttle! Can we go already? Nothing's coming out," he wailed.

"Yeah, you're right. Let's get 'em before they start polluting the lake," the tan leader spoke in his deep, smooth voice.

"Uh-uh. I ain't taking no bath," Vinnie protested.

"Fine, you can stay up here and keep watch," grinned Modo. He and Throttle extracted the front towing cables form their bikes, engaged the visors on their helmets and dove into the water. Vinnie, not wanting to be left out of the action, followed them, but took a couple of Martian grenades down with him.

After a quick poke around the inside, Vinnie let off the two explosives inside the hulk and blew it to bits, hopefully dispersing it enough to mask the fact there were parts of an alien spacecraft on Earth.

The guys sailed back to a more discreet part of the mainland, hopefully not attracting any of the police divers and rescue crews who were making to try and salvage whatever was on the bottom of the lake.

"Nobody was home, bros," said Modo as they rode along.

"Which means that our slippery customers probably bailed before they crashed," declared Throttle.

"One guess where they went," said Vinnie.

"Limburger."

"Let's visit the fish market first thing in the morning. We'll get to see the freshest produce," Throttle chuckled. "Let's rock, and ride!"

*

Spectre rode along the backstreets of the city, trying not to attract any attention. He noticed the main population here were, at a glance, fairly different from him in a physical sense. They had shorter manes, no fur on their bodies, smaller ears, no antenna and no snout; rather, they had a triangular-shaped projection from their face, which appeared to be their nose. They also had no tails. To try and blend in a bit, he decided not to remove his helmet, and wrapped his tail around his waist to make it less obvious.

The other problem was his fur. It certainly wasn't normal here to have that much fuzz growing off your skin. His clothes didn't help – he only left Plutark with the clothes on his back, which were tattered cargo pants, a torn white shirt (positively filthy), a belt and a pair of old combat boots. Not much to hide it with.

The plan was simple, in theory. Don't get seen for too long.

He was a bit concerned about riding Oblivion around, but he did see a few motorbikes, and they seemed to be a bit similar to her. She was essentially built for speed, with a steamlined body and handlebars that forced the rider to crouch over the body, keeping the drag to a minimum.

Spectre had come across her on Plutark, after she was brought to Biff's joint for scrap metal and spare parts. She was fairly badly damaged, with parts crumpled or missing after she was involved in a vicious fight. Spectre examined one of her body panels hanging loose and saw inscribed on the inside "Freedom Fighters." He didn't know who they were, or didn't think any more of it. Another one of countless others who were destroyed by the stinking planet wreckers.

After sitting there with no-one even taking a second look at her, Spectre approached his 'owner' about letting him keep her, and using the bike to travel out to breakdowns and delivering bills, rather than walking out and taking a longer time. The idea appealed to Biff, whose beady little eyes gleamed when Spectre mentioned something about bringing faster money into the business. And after a few weeks of working on her in his spare time, Spectre had her running again. Over time, he added more parts and replaced others to keep his bike going smoother, faster and nimbler.

And with the help of the young wrench jockey who claimed she was from the same planet as him, mouse and machine got off the rancid, sulfur-ridden hellhole and escaped into outer space.

His mind came back to the present. He saw that he was coming close to the stadium he just missed, so he turned a corner and started riding away from it.

*

Charley was fuming. She had been left behind like a helpless schoolgirl in the middle of the carpark and could only watch as her ride home left her to investigate a spaceship crash. Ooh, big deal!

As a result, she was now forced to walk back to the Last Chance Garage, at night. She wasn't afraid of the dark, rather, her only concern was the kind of scum that it brought out with it. She'd seen more than her fair share of fights and brawls in her lifetime.

"Stupid, chauvinistic, macho," she muttered under her breath, adding a few expletives every now and then. It mad her so mad.

After stomping halfway down a deserted street lined with shops, she became aware that someone was following her. She looked over her shoulder and saw two young, well-built men behind her and closing fast.

She increased her speed to a brisk walk, whereupon the path ahead of her became blocked by another man. Looking around for some kind of weapon to defend herself, the only thing she saw were three sports bikes parked on the footpath.

The man in front of her produced a knife. "Money, girley," was all he said.

She quickly forgot about the bros leaving her to trying to think of a way to escape. She couldn't go forward or backward, and if she ran out to the side, out onto the road, they would catch her in a matter of seconds.

It was then that she found a shimmer of hope. Someone was cruising down the street...on a, mildly put, banged-up bike. Still, it was better than nothing.

She bolted onto the road, her arms waving and shouting at the top of her lungs with the men on hot pursuit. The rider seemed to recognise she was in danger, and turned in her direction. She was just about to jump onto the back while the bike was still moving, but something about two finger widths wide wrapped around her torso and lifted her onto the seat effortlessly. Then, with it still wrapped around her, the rider gunned the engine hard.

It screamed off the mark and tore down the road. Charley could do nothing but hold on and hope to heaven that her enormous dinner of hot dogs would stay in her stomach. She was about to think the men were far behind when she heard a gunshot. Looking behind her, the crooks were riding their bikes after them. One was firing a gun at them wildly.

Without slowing down, the masked rider reached into a holster on his hip, pulled out a weird looking purple pistol, aimed over her shoulder and fired three blue laser shots.

All of them hit their mark, hitting the front wheels, destroying the tyres.

He put the pistol away and slowed the bike a bit, knowing that the men wouldn't be able to catch them now, especially after falling off at such a high speed.

Charley let out the breath she was holding ever since she jumped onto the motorcycle and breathed deep again, but her senses were assaulted by a voracious stench of sulfur, body odour and rotten fish, seemingly embedded in his long hair.

"Eww, you reek! Ever heard of a shower?" she said without thinking.

The bike stopped as quickly as it had taken off and she was roughly shoved off the back. The rider turned to her, his large helmet masking his face.

"I apologise for my hygiene. I'm also sorry for saving your arse back there."

Charley covered her mouth, realising what she had just said.

"Good night," he scoffed, before leaving her in a cloud of smoke and dust.

"I'm so sorry!" she yelled. Whether he didn't hear or didn't care, it was unknown, but he kept riding. Charley slumped her shoulders, feeling guilty, and trudged back home.


	3. Figuring it out

Chapter 3

Charley finally got home. After being ejected from the masked motorcyclist's ride, she had run all the way to the front door. The amount of adrenaline from the previous events had made it a relatively easy feat.

It had been such an eventful night, and she was having a lot of trouble processing all the information. She decided a (very) long, relaxing shower would be the best thing to calm her nerves. She took off all her smelly clothes and threw them straight into the washing machine and poured half a box of washing powder in with it, knowing it would take about twenty more washes to make a mere change in the smell. It would probably be better to just burn them and get some new threads later.

She did a quick nudie run to the shower and set the water running. After scrubbing her skin to the point of causing small welts to come out, she sat down and just let the water run over her, easing her body and mind back into a normal rhythm.

So many objects tonight reminded her of other things, but she couldn't quite put the pieces together, so focusing on one at a time might help.

Firstly, that smell. Get it out of the way immediately. She had, unfortunately, come across it before. Sulfur. Shocking B.O. Rotting fish. Of course! It was the similar to Limburger, on a good day, no less. But this guy couldn't have been a Plutarkian; he was too skinny, and no stinkfish could ever get that slim, even on a good diet and exercise regime.

Grumbling, Charley chose a different item. The gun he used. It was purple, with a yellow rim around the muzzle. And the fact it fired laser blasts? Earth hadn't developed lasers so far. And yet, it reminded her of something she had seen enough times that she should be able to recall it like clicking ones fingers. This was becoming more of a headache than a help.

The bike. It was nothing special at all. Well, at first glance. It certainly had a lot of speed. But no bike on this planet could ever match its pace. The only thing that was comparable to it was...

A Martian bike.

Charley couldn't believe it. It was inconceivable. There were only three Martian vehicles on Earth, and she was intimate with each one of them. And yet, there was another one. But how could a human get a hold of such a thing?

And then, it dawned on her that the Biker Mice just may have a comrade-in-arms here in Chicago.

She had been trying to figure out what that thing was that picked her up so easily.

It was a tail. A Martian mouse tail. The strongest appendage on any mouse.

Now things were falling into place. It was a mouse. He was riding a bike. It also explained where the pistol came from; it was standard Martian-issue. The guys had one each.

But how the hell could he come to smell like a Plutarkian? No mouse would ever let himself become that dirty. And there was nothing about him that even associated with Plutark.

Then, the final piece of the puzzle fell right into place.

It explained his smell, and the reason why they hadn't seen him before.

The crash-landing.

He had just arrived on Earth, after leaving, or more likely escaping, from a sizeable population of fishfaces. Most likely using him as some sort of slave labour in a concentration camp or something. It wasn't unheard of, according to Stoker.

And in his first hour of being here, he had already witnessed the natives preying on each other and then being insulted for something that was completely and utterly not his fault. She almost cried at how much that must have hurt him.

She had to tell the guys.

*

After the comment from that stupid woman, Spectre was still shaking his head. He really could not believe that after saving your life, you would focus on something else. Yes, he had the capacity to clear a school auditorium in thirty seconds or less. He was perfectly aware of that. If she even had a fraction of the idea of pain he'd experienced in his life – she wouldn't be able to speak for months.

But still, he couldn't get what she said out of his mind. The fact that he wasn't from this planet was bad enough, but the fact she mentioned his smell was just alienating him even more.

He rode past a fountain of some sort out the front of a house. He stopped his bike and removed his helmet. Against his better judgement, he slipped into the front yard and gulped down some of the freshest water he'd ever had. Then he dipped his head into the cool liquid and tried to scrub the stench out of his fur. His mane was matted and clogged with grease and he found it painful to try to get through all the knots. It was years since it was last cut. After a few more attempts he gave up, thinking it would probably be best to just hack it all off.

After trundling off again, he noticed that Oblivion's engine was starting to splutter and backfire. The fuel gauge wasn't quite empty, so he pulled over. He knelt beside his bike and gently revved the engine, trying to find what the cause was. Unsuccessful at this, he wheeled his beloved bike into an alleyway and tried to find some shelter in the now-cool night air.

He shook his head at his current situation. Because he owned nothing he could exchange to fix Oblivion, there was only one other thing he could do.

Give up his newly-found freedom and play slave driver again to help him survive.

He smiled sadistically, knowing his escape from Plutark would only be short lived.

*

The next morning, Spectre woke after sunrise. His hadn't slept as well as he did for a long time. The air of this planet was so much more cleaner than his previous residence, and he hadn't spent ages trying to not suffocate in Plutark's putrid gases, lest he die in his sleep from lack of oxygen. His bed, made of two layers of cardboard, was a lot more comfortable too.

The city was starting to bustle with activity outside the alley. Donning his helmet again and hiding as much of his fur as possible, Spectre wheeled his battered bucket of bolts along the footpath, trying to find a workshop he could loan himself to. He began to wonder why he should even bother with life, and why he shouldn't just take one of Oblivion's tow cables and hang himself. Then, her voice echoed in his thoughts.

"Life, no matter how bad it seems, is still the most precious thing you can have."

He didn't know what to think. He really couldn't be bothered putting up with all this slavery. But it was she who gave him new life. It was she who had brought him out of insanity through showing him love and kindness, who bolstered him through the most lowest period of him life. But it was what she said about life that kept him going. Kept him from giving up. Kept him from not throwing away the precious gift he realised he had; his life.

His mind had wandered so far he lost track of where he was walking and almost crossed the street with cars still going across. A few horns and shouts of abuse brought him right back to the present. It was then that he noticed a picture of a motorbike on the front of a small, squat brick building. Above the picture were the words 'Last Chance Garage.'

"Guess it suits us well," said Spectre, patting his bike in the fuel tank, and wheeled her towards the front door.

Thirty seconds later, he flicked the stand out on Oblivion and set her down. Walking into the building through a roller door, he looked about the place. It was small and compact, yet tidy. Some heavy metal music was playing on the stereo. Spectre turned to examine some equipment on a shelf when he heard a females voice behind him.

"Can I help you?"

Spectre turned and made to ask about offering his services when his eyes narrowed.

It was the same girl from last night.

She too recognised the clothes and helmet (and, she kept to herself, his smell).

Spectre straightened up. "No. Sorry to bother you," he said, before turning to walk out.

Charley stood there dumbfounded for a second, before she could finally move into action. She came up beside him.

"Hey, I'm really sorry about last night..."

"So you said."

"I don't know what came over me, I was so stupid. I shouldn't have said it."

Spectre had by now arrived at his bike and kicked the stand up.

"Is there anything wrong with your bike?" Charley asked.

"No, nothing," he replied, and began to walk away.

"Then why aren't you riding it?" Charley kept pushing.

"Lady, just drop it," Spectre hissed, trying to keep his cool.

Charley let him walk before trying the last thing she could think of.

"I know where you're from," she called after him.

Spectre stopped. The young grease monkey approached him from behind, causing him to turn when she uttered one word.

"Mars?"

His eyes widened, feeling very threatened and vulnerable about her knowing so much about him after spending all of a minute together last night. And then it got even worse.

"Been a prisoner lately? Hm? Escaped from some purulent piscines?" she asked.

"What's a piscine?"

"Another word for fish."

Spectre hung his head, anything remotely resembling a cover completely blown out of the water.

"Come back. Please," Charley pleaded.

Spectre stared at the young lady, before looking away, undecided..

"Please?" Charley repeated.

Spectre sighed. "Ok," he replied in a barely audible voice.

As Charley led the way back, she asked "What's your name?"

"Spectre."

"Pleased to meet you. I'm Charley."


	4. Cleaning up

Chapter 4

Spectre sat at the table at the Last Chance Garage, still wearing his helmet and drinking a large cup of water through a straw. It was even clearer and fresher than the fountain water the night previous, not like the acid and metal laced stuff he was forced to drink on Plutark.

Charley had quickly shut up shop as soon as he brought his bike inside and had set to work organising some fresh clothes and food. She came out and realised that he was the person most in need of a shower on the planet. Dressing him now would be like pouring new wine into old wineskins.

"Come with me."

She led him to the bathroom, switched on the light and pulled out some extra towels, facewashers, scrubbing brush, soap and shampoo. Spectre entered the room, looking around.

"What do you do?" he asked.

"We'll get to that. But I might need to do something first," said Charley, noticing his lengthy mane. "It might be easier to get clean if I cut off all this long hair."

He nodded. "Sure," he said, remembering the previous night in the fountain. He slowly took off his helmet, while Charley rummaged in a drawer for some scissors and electric clippers. When she faced him again, she gasped.

If the bros injuries on Mars were bad, then Spectre raised the bar quite a few notches.

It looked as if someone, or something, had removed his face, ran it through a lawnmower and tried to piece it roughly back together. Scars ran across his cheeks and forehead., some old and healed while others looked more recent. His front teeth were chipped and a few of his back teeth were missing. His lower jaw hung slightly askew, as if it had been broken before. Instead of having round ears like the bros, they had been crudely cut into a triangular shape, the edges jagged and uneven, giving the appearance of...a rat.

But the thing that spooked her most were his eyes.

Those bright orange eyes. Resembling a feral animal.

Had he really been tortured so long that they had turned that color naturally? Or was it just another sick experiment performed on him?

It didn't only startle Charley. Spectre hadn't seen himself in a mirror since he was abducted form Mars. Taking one look at the duplicate image, the helmet on the floor, cracking a few tiles. He slowly approached the reflection, touching his own face, then pulling away as if burnt him. He could only stare at the horrors the Plutarkians had done to him, making him unrecognisable as the young boy all those years ago.

It took well over twenty minutes for Charley to get his attention back and be able to start carefully removing all the matted fibres from the top of his head, till there wasn't much left at all. Then, she set up the shower for him to use and told him to take however long he wanted.

The attractive mechanic went back downstairs to the garage and looked at Spectre's bike. While it was Martian, it certainly didn't look it. Instead of a well-oiled machine, it was well and truly beyond trashed. No body panels were on it, leaving the engine bare to the elements. Acid rain had corroded and eaten away parts of the chassis and motor casing, and the tyres were past the bald stage. She could only think how much worse it would be if anyone set about to try and overhaul it – if it was possible.

She did tell the guys last night about her conclusions about who it was who saved her. After Throttle managed to convince Vinnie and Modo not to go out and hunt down her attempted muggers, she then launched into a flurry of insults about not to leave her in the carpark again, with a number of severe threats if it somehow did occur in the future.

Now, after seeing Spectre in his current state, she thought it might be best if the guys didn't come around to stay, until Spectre had a few days recovering. Just to relax. Then introduce things gradually, just so not to overload his mind.

*

Spectre hadn't ever felt anything like he did in the shower. In Plutark, a shower was something he avoided at all times; it fell from the sky and resembled rain, but dissolved pretty much anything it touched. It was essentially acid falling from the atmosphere.

In the heat and steam of the cubicle, the water rushing over his body, his sweat oozing the scum of Plutark embedded in his skin for so long. The water going down the plughole ran a deep grey color for fifteen solid minutes as the grime was washed away.

Using the scrubbing brush served to be a source of extreme discomfort as he tried to clean his matted fur. Great hunks of the stuff were pulled from his skin in the process. His scalp was a lot easier to wash now that the majority of his mane was gone.

Finally, he stepped out of the stall and dried himself with a towel. He still had an odour about him, which wasn't surprising, but at last he was clean. The feeling of it was simply breathtaking. It was then that he thought the shower was the best thing ever invented. By the end of the new adventure, a large amount of fur had almost clogged the drain, the cubicle floor was stained from the grime, the shampoo bottle was empty and the bar of soap was all but a sliver thick.

Dressed in some old trackies and shirt, he went back down to the garage. After finding Charley in the adjoining kitchen, he sat at the table and was greeted by a large plate of delicious looking food. She encouraged him to eat, and before long, he was feeling sick after scoffing himself so hard and so fast.

Charley quickly poured him a glass of lemonade, which she offered and he took gratefully. He thought the water he had earlier was sweet; this stuff put a new spin on the word.

"These are so good. What are they called?" he asked.

"Hamburgers." Charley replied.

Spectre started to think about this young lady and began to note some similarities between her and his friend on Plutark. Both were mechanics, both were women, and they were very kind to him in a time of need. They even had similar names. The only difference was the remark Charley made the night before, which was all but forgiven.

"So what's wrong with your bike?" asked Charley, after everything had been cleaned up.

Spectre eyed her closely. He didn't really want to disclose anything about her, since she had a few extra pieces of "equipment" that made a bit of a standout from other bikes.

"I'm not sure. I actually wanted to ask a favour," Spectre mumbled.

"Yeah?"

"I was wondering if I could borrow your equipment to fix my bike..."

"Ok...why do I feel a 'but' coming up?"

"And in return I can work for you, to repay my debt."

Charley smiled. "Spectre, you don't have to be a slave anymore. Earth isn't like that."

"Earth?" he asked, confused.

"Oh, sorry," Charley reminded herself. "This planet is called Earth."

"Earth? But that means..."

"Mars is the next stop," said Charley.

The dark brown mouse sighed inwardly to know he was so close, and yet so far.

"So damn close," he repeated.

"We'll work something out," Charley offered.

Spectre paused. "How come you know so much about me?"

Charley pursed her lips together. "What if I told you that there are three others of your kind on this planet? "

"Really? Three?"

"Yep," she answered. "They saved this garage, and my life, many times. Of course, I've helped them out more than once or twice. And I know their bikes pretty well; I've made some modifications to them myself," she beamed.

"You know how to fix Martian bikes?" Spectre asked.

"Yep. Best wrench jockey in Chi-town."

"Chi-town?"

"Yeah. This city's called Chicago."

"Ok," he asked, slightly confused. "Why do you call it Chi-town?"

"Uhh, I just...do," Charley said.

An awkward pause happened between them, before Spectre asked again. "Can I fix my bike here?"

"Sure you can," Charley said warmly. "As long as I get to help."

Soon, they were both in the garage, going through Oblivion's mechanics with a fine tooth comb. She tried not to show it, but Charley was dying to see what kind of goodies were housed in the chassis. It contained the usual Freedom Fighter boosters and a hot engine to boot, but all were critically worn and needed some serious work. Her tow cables were equipped with a four-toothed pincer, both front and back.

Then came her weapons. Charley had to suppress a squeak resembling the words, "Ooh, goodie!"

In the middle of the body was a grenade launcher. It was unusable though; depleted of ammunition.

It's secondary weapons, extending from each side, were two small miniguns. They were cleverly built; the barrels springing out of the housing cover whenever the need to fight arose. They bore a similarity to Vinnie's side weapons in terms of folding away. And their laser crystals were untouched, meaning the deadly weapons were in working order.

The final weapons were two small laser cannons at the rear of the bike, however, these were damaged and weren't working.

Deciding to just work on the engine for now, the two set to work. Charley had some spare Martian bike parts from the guys, which were put to good use. Together, they removed the whole engine block and replaced anything that looked bad. Charley even had some spare body panels which she spray painted a menacing dark purple and attached them, making the machine look as sexy as it did years ago. Finally, after tuning it to run on Earth fuel and filling with fresh coolant and oil, they were done. Oblivion even beeped in response, liking her new makeover.

There was one part during the day where Charley excused herself to make a phone call. He could hear her in the office, saying that something was up but she didn't need any help, and if anyone came around she would...Wow, maybe she wasn't as nice as what he thought she was.

"Mind if I give her a test run?" Spectre asked. It was about 11:00 pm.

"As long as I get to come along," Charley said with a smile.


	5. Street racing

Hello all. I forgot to mention here I made a small reference to a story that was written by fellow BMFM fanatic inuficcrzy. I'm so sorry! If you want me to, I shall delete the words from the story immediately. Just email me. Its a great trilogy though, so if you haven't already, do yourself a favour and read them. Z.

Chapter 5

The bike cruised beautifully around the streets of Chicago. The engine sounded like a deep growl at low revs, but screamed like an Italian sportscar when Spectre, now dressed in a leather jacket and jeans, opened her up. Shattered, repaired, and now renewed. They really had worked well together as a team. After deciding to move closer into the city, they happened across a large gathering of people, surrounding a group of what sounded like people with some lively motorbikes.

It's a street race," Charley said to herself.

"A what?"

"A street race. People have a mass-gathering somewhere with cars or bikes and race on a set track. It's illegal, really, but it's lots of fun."

"You've done this sort of thing before?" Spectre turned to look at the lady mechanic.

"Well, a few times. I've started a few races too," she said, with a gleam in her eye that could only be described as devilish. It was then that she thought of an idea.

"Hey, this would be a great chance to test out your bike's makeover," urged Charley.

"You want me to race? What if I go too hard?" asked Spectre, a little alarmed.

"It's ok, nothing bad will happen. Everything will be fine, I promise," Charley smiled at him, trying to persuade him by using her charm.

"Well, ok, I guess. You did help me fix her, after all."

Charley smiled. "These are all Earth bikes, and these guys don't really know what they're doing.

He was just about to head to the start when Charley saw a gleaming red sports bike approach the line. She was able to recognise that sweet piece of machinery anywhere, anytime.

"Wait," she called, getting his attention. "That guy over there, on the red bike..."

After a very quick spiel about Vinnie's obnoxious flirting, unflinching ego, and taste for high-risk acrobatics on his bike, Spectre joined this race with a mission.

Kick his butt.

She also mentioned that he and his bike weren't exactly from the planet they were currently residing on.

*

Vinnie waited impatiently on the start line, which had been sprayed across the road by a couple of youths. He thought these races wouldn't take this long to get under way. They had five racers ready to go, including himself.

Then, a final bike joined the race, right next to the white adrenaline junkie. It was painted a deep purple that looked almost scary, the the bodywork was immaculate, and the engine sounded flawless. The riders face was obscured by his large helmet. Vinnie decided to have a little fun.

"Hey man, if you can finish less than a quarter mile behind me, you can join my entourage," he jeered.

The opposing rider merely looked at him, shrugged and focused forward again. Grumbling to himself, Vinnie did the same.

An attractive blonde girl made her way out to the centre of the road, with only a checked flag wrapped around her body. Someone in the background said that when the flag hit the ground, the race started. He was hard to hear though, the engines of all the bikes growling and screaming from riders getting overzealous with their right hands.

The blonde girl suddenly ripped the flag off her body, revealing a black and white bikini underneath. The flag hit the road...

And it was on.

*

It was one thing to see bikers start to slow down about three-quarts through a race if it was blatantly obvious they weren't going to win a thing. It was another thing when they all stopped riding after about a hundred metres.

All except two.

Vinnie and Spectre.

After blasting off the start line at gut-wrenching speeds and leaving the rest of the pack left in a daze, the two young men rocketed along the empty streets of the busy city. Two flashes of red and purple was all that could be seen by the people lining the footpaths.

At first, Vinnie was surprised about the talented bike jockey. His cycle was certainly suped-up, able to keep up with Sweetheart. The first straight mostly involved Vinnie a metre or two in front, when the white furball decided to spice things up.

Turning to a line of cars parked on the side of the road, he jumped his bike up and started bouncing off the roof of the first car, then the second, going down the line, leaving large dents and tyre marks in his wake.

"YAHOO!" he whooped with glee.

Spectre eyed Vinnie's characteristic riding. "Yeah, Charley's knows him, alright," he said to himself.

The first corner was a very sharp left hander. Vinnie vaulted from the cars to the road, and in perfect synchronisation, they executed a sliding turn around the bend and tore down the next section of the track, which was considerably narrower than the first.

Vinnie had gotten slightly ahead of his unknown opponent and started flamboyantly cutting him off from trying to get past. If he went left, Vinnie copied. Going right didn't help either.

Vinnie started singing, "Oh, anything you can do, I can do betterrrrrr!"

"Ok then, pretty boy. Let's play canyon tag," Spectre muttered to himself.

Gunning the screaming engine even more, he guided Oblivion up the side of an apartment building and, in a gravity-defying stunt the Biker Mice did on Limburger tower most of the time, started riding along its wall. He got a little way ahead of the red bike, then turned back to the road, now leading the race.

Vinnie stopped his singing at the sight of the purple bike in front of him. And with not much track left to race on, his efforts to try and get back into first position got even more drastic. Finally, his competitive nature got the best of him and he briefly nudged the back tyre of the purple bike, just enough to force him into an error.

Unfortunately, the nudge had caused Spectre to be sent into a skid, and he started spinning out of control. Panicking, he tried to right the steering, and then he just saw, out of the corner of his eye, the small hatchback that he would be hitting in a few seconds. In the dizzying tailspin, his sight left him, and all he could see was black.


	6. The first awakening

Chapter 6

Vinnie thundered past the whirling purple bike and raced to the finish line. Looking into the rear-view mirror, he could see that the other bike had abruptly stopped its spin cycle and started to come after him again. But with only about a kilometre left to race, it was all downhill now. Vinnie was going to win, hands down. He chuckled.

Suddenly, he felt Sweetheart lurch underneath him and, for some reason, slowed right down. His head came forward from the loss of momentum and hit the small windscreen on the dash, cracking it. He made to look behind to see what caused it when he was smashed in the face by the rider he just knocked down. He fell over, blood coming from his nose and stars littering his vision. He could only look and watch as the rookie raced on to claim victory.

*

His eyesight turned from black, to grey, then to something resembling fog. And then, he could see again perfectly. Swerving to miss the crowd on the footpath, he kept going till he crossed the line and claimed the checked flag, waved by the same girl who was wearing the black and white bikini.

It always happened when he was under stress. When his life was in danger. When he got angry. And it was dangerous. If he ever lapsed into his...subconsciousness, or whatever it was...he was totally unpredictable. Uncontrollable. Almost unstoppable. He should have known that going into this stupid race was a bad idea. What if someone got hurt? What if they traced any damage back to him and got Charley into trouble?

In any case, he returned and collected his prize money and went back to where Charley was standing discreetly, in case Vinnie saw her and asked to know what she was thinking by not letting the most studliest mouse in the universe come round to her place. Together, they rode back to the Last Chance.

After pulling in through the roller doors, Charley went and shut it, then went to talk to Spectre about how he went.

When she approached him, he became flustered and agitated, mumbling under his breath. He ripped the helmet off his head and started pacing up and down.

"Are you ok," Charley asked worried, keeping her distance.

His eyes flashing his usual bright orange, Spectre merely grunted at her. He was still walking up and down, talking in jibberish. Something had spooked him.

"Spectre, calm down. Please, just breathe," said Charley, approaching him and touching his shoulder. She started to breathe in and out in the same way one would encourage a woman in labour, and he started to follow. Slowly, he relaxed, and she held him close.

"It's ok, it's ok," she said softly.

They went an sat on the sofa in the lounge room, which had been clean for longer than one day since the guys hadn't been around to wreck anything.

"What's got you all worked up?"

"It-it was the during the race. I was in front," Spectre said, recalling the event. "And then...I think I got shunted and then I started spinning out of control."

Charley silently boiled at Vinnie doing such as cheap thing like that to win a stupid street race. When she saw him next, she was going to string him up by his tail and beat him with the biggest wrench she had in the garage.

"But you're ok now, and you won the race!" Charley said with probably too much enthusiasm. "How did you do it?"

"I-I don't know."

"Surely you must have some idea."

Spectre honestly wished he had no idea of why these things happened.

"You can tell me," Charley murmured.

"It's...it's complicated," replied Spectre.

"I can't help you if you won't let me," said Charley. She put her hand on his shoulder.

Spectre rubbed the bridge of his nose. He hated even attempting to recall what the Plutarkians did to him. It was too painful. What made him take his next step, he didn't really understand.

"I...I have a...I guess in short, an alter ego," he stammered.

"Like a split personality?"

"I guess. But it only comes out when I'm really angry or scared, and when I'm out of danger or nothing else is there to wreck, then I come out of it and...and I'm me again," he told her. He'd had a lot of time trying to figure out what was happening inside his head. "Anyway, because I was out of control, and was gonna get hurt...I guess that's what set it off."

"Sounds like some type of guardian angel to me," offered Charley

"It's not a guardian angel," he muttered, sounding somewhat nervy. "It's a demon. It recklessly destroys things, it loves to cause carnage. It's even killed people. It's dangerous."

Charley frowned.

"When I escaped Plutark, I leveled about six by eight city blocks in just a few minutes. Why do you think I named her Oblivion?"

There was silence over the room for the next few minutes. Charley couldn't believe that such a monster lay within the emaciated, scared young man that was sitting on the other side of her couch.

"How did you get to be like this?" she finally managed to spit out.

"Some device that was still in it's experimental stages," Spectre replied. "It was meant to brainwash people and make them loyal to Plutark. They called it the Mind Turner, or Mind Bender, or something like that. Except it wasn't a Plutarkian who came up with it."

Charley's face went white.

"Can't remember the guy's name. He was short, little bit of blonde hair, and he always wore these little green goggles and black high-heel boots... Are you ok? There's no color in your face."

*

While initially annoyed that he went into an illegal street race, both Throttle and Modo couldn't help but laugh at Vinnie when he told them he got owned by someone who 'spun out' and still won the race.

"Bro, you really suck," laughed Throttle.

"It's not fair," wailed Vinnie.

"Are your racing skills getting bent out of place like your nose?" crowed Modo.

Vinnie scoffed, holding an rag filled with ice onto his face. The punch had actually left a couple of dints in the mask he wore, some blood was still coming from his nose, and he was still feeling a lot of pain.

The snow-colored mouse ignored his comrades jeering and joking as he went over to Sweetheart to examine her windscreen. A rough semi-circle had been chipped out when his head crashed into it, and a crack had gone all the way to the body. He would have to ask Charley if she had anything that could possibly replace it.

Charley.

Man, she was beautiful. Funny. Caring. Hard working. Sexy. Flirtatious. She was everything a guy could want. He liked her so much, but he hadn't had the courage to ask her on a date. And now she was asking the guys not to come over to the Last Chance. She probably had a boyfriend now, and didn't want to freak him out when three Martians on motorbikes rocked up. Damn it.

Vinnie's gaze shifted to the tail end of Sweetheart's chassis, and something caught his eye.

Four small punctures in the armour plating. What could have made those holes? He hadn't noted them this morning. Maybe they had happened during the race. And they seemed to be evenly spaced apart.

_Wait a second..._

Vinnie opened the panel that housed the rear towing cable. Barely noticing a comment from one of his bros that he was so useless on a bike now that he had to open things manually, he took the four prong pincer and lined it up against the indents on his beloved.

They fitted pretty snugly.

Then it dawned on him.

He was racing a Martian bike. It explained the fact it kept up with him, even overtaking him at one point (or two points, if he was going to be honest with himself), and why he had been slowed to a crawl at one point.

And he knew exactly where to search for it. No mechanic in Chi-town could make a Martian bike look so good, except for one little lady.


	7. Uncomfortable introductions

Chapter 7.

Two pairs of motorbike boots silently made their way around to the back door of the Last Chance Garage. Throttle opened the door, creaking slightly, and closed it after Modo entered in after him.

They stealthily made their way across the garage, and saw a few sports bikes sitting there, waiting to be fixed. It was too dark to see any purple ones that Vinnie had described earlier.

The lights suddenly flashed and came to life, and Throttle saw a skinny, furry figure with pointy ears, with a blaster aimed directly at the bridge of his field specs.

Modo saw him as well, and popped his arm cannon out at the unknown being. In reply, he reached behind him and pulled a second Martian laser from behind his back, sighting the exact same spot as his bro.

Vinnie dived through an explosion of glass and wood splinters that used to be a window, rolled to his feet and directed his pistol straight down Spectre's left ear canal.

"Surprise!" he called.

Spectre cast a sideways glance and snuffed a laugh as he saw the dinted face mask and dried blood on the whiskers of his racing opponent.

Vinnie got annoyed. "Prepare to get yo ass kicked," he drawled in a 'gangsta' accent..

Spectre whistled, and instantly, Oblivion's engine roared to life in the corner. She turned to face Vinnie, and two flaps on her sides opened, and the two miniguns moved into position, barrels extended, and began to spin. Vinnie squeaked, and went even whiter than his fur.

"Ready when you are," Spectre said, with little concern in his voice.

Someone came bounding down the stairs, and Charley emerged, grasping a baseball bat and only wearing a black singlet top and undies.

"What's going on here?" she yelled.

"Whoo! Sweetheart!" Vinnie said, temporarily forgetting about the bike's sights trained on him. His body stood to attention (in the non-dirty way, just needed to clarify :P), as Charley went back upstairs to put some more clothes on, blushing and cursing under her breath.

"Guns down! All of you," she yelled from her room at the top of the stairs.

Reluctantly, at one point or another, all the mice lowered their weapons, but still held them in their hands.

"Oblivion, I'm talking to you as well!"

The purple bike beeped, sounding somewhat uncomfortable at being told off, and her miniguns disappeared into her body.

*

After everyone had finally explained their stories of the night, and Vinnie had stopped ogling Charley after she put on a pair of trackies and a dressing gown, there was an uncomfortable silence around the dinner table of the Last Chance.

Throttle rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to make sense of who they had just come across. Modo sat with his head leaning on his arm, glancing at people around the room. Vinnie tapped the table impatiently. Charley sighed at being woken up – again – and sat with her hands behind her head. And Spectre stood in the corner, his arms folded, looking at the floor.

"So," Throttle finally spoke, his voice deeper than usual. "How long have you been here, Spectre?"

"Two days," the shadowy figured replied.

"Where are you from?" Modo asked.

Spectre gave him a sarcastic look.

"He means where were you being held hostage by the Plutarkians," Throttle clarified.

"On Plutark itself," Spectre said, turning to look out th window. He really wasn't wanting to talk about this again.

Throttle turned to Charley. "Why didn't you tell us when you found him?"

"I-I, uh...um," she stammered.

"It's because I didn't want to meet you just yet," Spectre said, covering for the lady who had given him so much.

"She still should have told us. It's not safe for you to riding around on your own," Throttle stated.

"I can look after myself."

"Earth is very different from Plutark," Throttle muttered, getting quite annoyed.

"Yeah? Well, I can keep a lower profile than Captain Courageous here," the equally annoyed Spectre said, indicating Vinnie. "And I can..."

"Easy, easy, bros," Modo stood up, trying to calm everyone down. "It's late and we've all had a big night. How about we sleep now and get back to this in the morning?

"Sounds good to me," Vinnie yawned, even though the question wasn't exactly directed to him.

Spectre and Throttle stared at each other, before nodding in agreement. Modo was right. If they kept going like this it could turn ugly.

"Um, Charley-ma'am. I don't think there's enough room in the lounge for all of us," Modo piped up.

"Well, if that's the case, one of us could always sleep in your room, doll," Vinnie said, waggling his eyebrows and running his tongue along his lips. Modo punched him in the arm.

"Ow!" he yelped, and was just about to lay into the grey mouse when he heard something that was sweeter than music to his ears.

"Ok, Vinnie."

Vinnie almost fell in mid-stride and turned to see Charley standing with her hands on her hips and a devilish smirk on her face. Throttle and Modo looked at Charley in horror. Even Spectre glanced in her direction.

"Yeow! See ya!" Vinnie whooped, before scooping the pyjama-clad mechanic into his arms and jogged up the stairs, the door slamming behind them.

"What the hell is Charley thinking?" asked Modo, incredulous.

"I really don't know, big-fella. Maybe she's even more tired than us," said Throttle, still trying to comprehend why she would even consider sharing a bed with Vinnie. The only thing that was more abundant in his body than adrenaline was testosterone.

"Well, time for beddie-byes. You coming?" Modo asked Spectre.

He nodded slowly. "Yeah, I'll be there soon."

Spectre remained in the kitchen for a few minutes, staring out the window. It was a full moon tonight, and its white color seemed pure against dark sky. Plutark usually had around five of six moons at any one time, but they were always being rotated every few months as the last of their natural resources were siphoned away.

The sky was littered with thousands of little bright speckles of light, some in straight lines while others were randomly allocated their own space. He had been told what they were called once, on Mars. Steers? No. Sties? He couldn't remember. He hadn't seen them in years.

He heard some muffled voices and groans from the room above him, most of them seeming to come from Vinnie. Something thumped on the floor a few times. He could hear some disgruntled comments from Throttle and Modo. Then, silence.

As Spectre went into the lounge to find a couch to sleep on, he remembered back when Biff would sometimes pay to have a "lady fish" come over and he would hear similar noises to what had just occurred. Thankfully though, they lasted about the same amount of time.


	8. Limburger dispatches the Ninja

Chapter 8.

Charley walked into the kitchen and saw Spectre leaning against the windowsill, looking through the glass, as he seemed to do a lot.

"How did you sleep?" she asked.

"Pretty good, but the big guy snores pretty loud" came the reply. "Hey, last night. You didn't really..."

Charley smiled. "I'll tell you later."

"I'm not sure I want to know."

"It's funny. You'll laugh, I promise. Hey, you like hot dogs?"she said, putting on some boiling water on the stove.

Spectre looked puzzled.

"You're a mouse, you'll love them."

Modo and Throttle came in, rubbing their eyes and yawning.

"Morning, Charley-girl."

"Mornin', Charley-ma'am."

Soon, food was on the table and everyone started to tuck in, when Vinnie came in, trying to work some kinks out of his back and neck. He swooped past Throttle and grabbed the hot dog he was just about to bite into.

"What's wrong Vinnie?" Throttle sniggered, noticing his bros discomfort. "'Get up' on the wrong side of the bed?"

"Didn't get up on any side of the bed," he grumbled, ignoring the pun.

Everyone except Charley frowned, who giggled.

"She made me sleep on the floor!"

Now all eyes were on Charley.

"Well, he said 'one of us could always sleep in my room,' he didn't specifically mention the bed," she shrugged.

The effect of what she said set in, and Modo and Throttle crowed with laughter. Spectre allowed a slight twitch of his lips to happen.

The insults and remarks aimed at Vinnie from his bros seemed endless, and only ceased after Vinnie was forced to leave the room to salvage what was left of his masculinity. It was then that Throttle noticed Spectre in the room for the first time, or so it seemed. Instead of direct, upfront questioning, he decided upon a different tack.

"Spectre, I know what it's like to be a Plutarkian prisoner, and it's not a good experience. I imagine that you have had much worse times than me, judging from what I can see."

Spectre visibly softened.

"I would just like to be able to hear your story. You don't need to tell me all the specifics. Just how you have survived this long."

Spectre sighed. While he wasn't being forced into it this time, he still didn't want to say it, but felt he had an obligation to repeat his story again. And so he repeated what he had told Charley the day before, not venturing too far; just enough to keep the leader of the Mice happy. At the end of his spiel, Throttle slowly nodded.

"So what's your story? With you guys?" Spectre asked, turning the question around.

Throttle's eyebrows flexed upwards, not quite expecting the inquiry but not surprised by it either. He gave a rundown of who they were, what they stood for, and how they came to be on Earth.

The story finished, and Spectre squinted. "You're not telling me everything," he said.

"Either are you," replied Throttle casually, as if he could read anyones mind while he had his shades on.

Spectre nodded, making a mental note that Throttle wasn't stupid, along with the other one; that he was a mongrel when he was tired. After nobody said anything, he went back to the window.

"So what now? What are we going to do?"

"Well, you can move into the scoreboard with us. It got repaired a lot quicker than what we thought," answered Modo. "We could get a bed for you, and we can just hang out. We could always use an extra player for basketball."

Spectre shrugged, indicating he didn't know what the hell 'basketball' was. Even so, he liked Modo. Gentle and friendly, even though they hardly knew each other.

It was agreed that Spectre would move in later that day. But for now, he would keep doing some work on his bike while the bros patrolled the city, searching for any trouble. They hadn't gone to trash Limburger's plaza after Charley figured out that there was no extra Plutarkians here during her brainwave in the shower. Who knew what the Big Cheese was going to come up with?

*

Lawrence Limburger observed the view of the city from his office at the top floor of his tower. He often did this when he was plotting another scheme in order to get Earth's natural resources to Plutark. Seeing the people scurry around in the streets always seemed to jog his mind into thinking of some sort of plan.

However, this time, he wasn't going to try and get dirt or oil or water. Last week, he received a call from Lord Camembert informing him that some sort of renegade on a weapon-laden motorbike had totalled a large section of the Plutarkian capital, then escaped by using a shuttle. Thousands had died. Now, after the spaceship crash a few days ago, Limburger was relatively certain that the same fighter was now on Earth, in Chicago no less.

"Greasepit!" he yelled.

The door burst open in a flash and the muscular but mindless hulk stumbled into the office.

"I need that mutinous motorbiking maniac in my office, right at this moment."

"Duh, what was that, boss?" Greasepit stammered.

"Get me whoever crashed here a few days ago," Limburger yelled his request in a simpler form.

"Uh...oh! Ok, Mr Limboiger, I'll go get him and bring him back here. Yeah, that's it," he said before sliding out the door and down the corridor.

Limburger sighed, before going back to his desk and taking the elevator down to the lab.

"Karbunkle!" he bellowed.

"Yes, your exquisite evergreen-ness," the evil scientist wheezed.

"I need that runaway who stole a ship and crashed here two days ago, and that pathetic, petroleum protruding ponce will never be able to pull it off, even if it was a fluke. I need a villain who can grab him while the goons keep those Biker Mice distracted."

"Of course, your cheesiness! I have just the fellow to help us," Karbunkle replied, as he activated the transporter. After a few minutes, a puff of smoke exploded and a slim character in a black jumpsuit emerged from the chamber. "May I introduce to you, the Ninja!" he exclaimed.

Limburger looked the Ninja up and down and wasn't quite sure what to make of him. He had the appearance of a dog, with narrow eyes, snout and pointy ears. He then spoke in some dialect that Limburger couldn't tell teeth from tail. The Plutarkian rolled his eyes. This was a doozy.

The Ninja's eyes glinted, then he threw a smoke bomb on the ground and all in the room were blinded from the dark smog. It eventually dissipated, and Limburger saw the Ninja standing in the same spot, but had somehow removed Limburger's entire business suit form his body. He threw it in the air, before leaping after it and slashing the purple garment clean in half with a sword. It was sheathed before he touched the ground and assuming the stance he had moments before.

Though he was totally embarrassed, Limburger was impressed with the skill of this newcomer. "Well, done, my dear Ninja," he applauded, before muttering something about using something other than his new suit. "Now, to business. I need you to find this mouse and bring him back to this building." he retrieved a blurry picture taken from a security camera and showed it to the Ninja. "There are three other vermin you should be aware off..." his voice trailed off, as he realised that the minute minion had disappeared without so much as a sound.

"Uh, Karbunkle?"

"Yes, your now almost naked-ness?"

"How did he get my pants off? My feet never left the floor."


	9. Saving the Last Chance

Chapter 9.

Spectre only just managed to stomach the hot dog that was served for tea that night. He didn't really enjoy them much at all. He much preferred the hamburgers that Charley had made the day before. He also had a liking for the lemonade over root beer.

While the guys were a bit more relaxed around him now, he still felt like a bit of an outcast. They played music that sounded like a screeching bird combined with a toddler banging on pots and pans. And their game of basketball usually involved the player with the ball being tackled from all directions. It was all getting a bit much for him. Now he was in bed, and how he was going to get to sleep while Modo's snoring echoed, was anyone's guess.

"Hey, I got a question for you."

Spectre turned to face Vinnie, easily the most restless of the three.

"What happened to your eyes?" he asked.

Spectre put his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling for a moment. He smiled sadistically.

"It was when I was with the Plutarkian scientists. They took a curved needle, slipped it under my eyeball and injected some dye into my optic nerve."

Vinnie felt a bit queasy. "Uhh...why?"

"Doesn't matter, really. They didn't need a reason for more than half the stuff they did to me. They just did it anyway."

There was silence, when Throttle spoke up.

"What about your ears?"

The dark brown mouse winced. This was one of the most horrible days of his life. He didn't even remember why he recalled the story. It always sickened him.

"I was on Plutark. One day, a rat called in to see Biff, my owner. Can't remember his name. Anyway, he was bragging about how good he was and stuff, and my fat slob of an owner thought that if I looked like a rat, I'd work as hard as one."

Vinnie and Throttle listened intently. Modo had woken up and was hearing Spectre's story as well.

"Anyway, Biff gave me an electric shock, and I must have passed out, 'cos I came around and...yeah...my ears," he trailed off, making a swishing motion with his hands.

"Whoa, mama," whispered Modo. Vinnie ground his teeth together. Spectre rubbed the sore spot on his neck where four-prongs device had been ripped from his skin so Biff couldn't track him down.

The mice lay in silence, out of respect of their kin who had died or were once prisoner of war of the Plutarkians, as well of those who were still captive.

"Guys! GUYS!"

Charley's voice came across their two-way radio, sounding desperate and almost panicky. Vinnie was at the handset in a flash.

"Sweetheart, what's wrong?"

"Limburger's goons are here. They got the place surrounded! I'm-" The signal cut to a hash.

"She's in trouble," Vinnie said darkly. "We gotta help her!"

"I hear ya," Throttle replied, also quite angry that Limburger had attempted another kidnapping of the best wrench jockey of Chicago. They all raced to their machines while shouting their famous war cry.

"Let's rock, and ride!"

Spectre also got to his bike and rode off after them, but a little confused as to why they had left in such a hurry. Sure, Charley was in trouble, but they would be an absolute laughing stock when they arrived to help...

*

Charley had just been securely tied to his three-wheeler when Greasepit and the goons heard the Biker Mice approach. But as they got closer, all they could do was drop from laughter. It took a few seconds for the mice to realise why.

In their haste to rescue Charley, they hadn't thought to put on any clothes, and were sitting there in only their boxer shorts. All three blushed as they silently vowed to sleep in their clothes from now on.

"Guys," Charley called out, half as a joke and half serious. "This is the last time I ever want to see you like this!"

Just then, Spectre had arrived, who was fine since he usually slept in his clothes. Then, taking advantage of the fact that the goons were incapacitated by their fanatical laughter, the battle was short. Keeping a wary eye on the bruised henchmen, the four mice untied Charley, who kept a half-meter-longer-than-normal distance from her furry friends.

"What's wrong sweetheart? The studliest mouse in the universe doesn't bite, unless you really want him to," Vinnie said in his usual, though vain attempt to charm her.

"You've just beaten Limburger's goons with no pants on, and you're thinking I should be impressed?" Charley said with a smile that took the sting out of her comment.

"Are you alright Charley? Are you hurt?" Throttle asked.

"No, I'm ok," replied Charley. "But...something's not right."

"What do you mean?" Modo frowned.

"Well, they weren't after you guys. They said something about trying to get 'the newbie.'"

"The newbie?" Throttle said, trying to piece the bits together inside his head. "What do you mean?"

"Greasepit was saying something about Limburger not wanting any resources, just this 'newbie' who tore up..." he voice trailed off.

"Plutark."

Everyone turned to Spectre, who narrowed his eyes.

"I blew up half of Downtown," he said with a deadly stare. "Seems they want me back."

Throttle nodded. "We should get you back to the hideout. Limburger doesn't know we're there. Vinnie," he addressed his comrade-in-arms. "You stay here with Charley-girl, in case the sucker squad comes back for another round."

Charley really didn't relish the thought of Vinnie looking after he in just his boxer shorts.

"Spectre, you and Modo come back to the hideout with me. We should be prepared. Let's ride!"

The trio left on their bikes in a cloud of burnt rubber. Charley then took the grinning white Martian inside to find some spare pants.

Unbeknownst to them, a shadow started following the former group on the rooftops of buildings.

*

4:34 am.

Spectre was on watch now for about half an hour. He was certain that Modo was in dreamy land – his snoring was a dead giveaway. He assumed Throttle was in the same place, since he had taken off his field specs and was mumbling incoherently to himself.

He walked over to the fridge to see if there was any lemonade, but there was only bottles of root beer in there. He picked up a bottle, took note of it's size, and a crafty smile came across his face. Taking about ten bottles of the stuff, he silently took them over to Oblivion and popped the grenade launcher housing. After finishing his little joke, he decided to have some water to drink instead, so he grabbed a cup and turned the tap on but a sudden sting in his neck prevented him from filling his glass. He tried to feel his neck but found that he couldn't even move.

He had been paralysed, standing up no less.

Before he could even think of some way to alert Throttle and Modo, a shadow of sorts had wrapped a rope around him and lifted him effortlessly to the roof, where a small hole had been cut. Taking the glass out of his hand and throwing it away, the shadow tied Spectre securely to his back and disappeared into the night.


	10. Limburger's plan revealed

Chapter 10

The second the glass shattered on the ground outside, Throttle was out of bed. His eyes scanned the room for any intruders.

There were none.

He looked for Spectre. He wasn't in the room.

_WHAT?!_

Spectre wasn't in bed, or anywhere. Great.

By now, Modo was out of bed and got on the radio to Vinnie.

"Hey, Vinnie? You there bro?"

A few seconds later, a grumpy voice came over the speaker. "Yeah, what is it man?"

"Is Spectre with you?"

"Course not! He's with you...Sorry, Charley-girl! Are you o...Ow!"

"What's happening over there?" Modo asked.

"Uh, nothing...Ow!"

"Right, well, when you're finished, get over here quick. Spectre's missing."

"How quick? Can I try to set a new record?" Vinnie yelled excitedly.

"Whatever, Vinnie. Out." Modo signed off.

After setting down the radio, Modo's eye glowed red, angry that their new friend had been taken. Throttle came up to him.

"Easy, big fella. We'll get him back."

"I'm just mad. Mad that these stinking Plutarkians always have to steal and pillage everything that we care about. Our planet. Our families. Everything!" he yelled, before grabbing a steel girder, bending it around on itself and throwing it across the room.

"I know what your saying, bro," Throttle said in a calming voice. "It stinks, majorly. But we can't get angry now. Tell you what; try to think of a new way we can trash his tower. We're running out of ideas."

A flashing light and quiet beeping was heard in the corner of the room, and Modo went over to see Oblivion looking a bit sad.

"It's ok, little darlin'," he cooed. "We'll get him back. You can ride with us if you want. We might need you to get him out of there if he's hurt."

She brightened up a little bit, happy to be able to help.

At that moment, Vinnie roared into the scoreboard in a pairs of jeans. Slinging his bandoleers over his shoulders and shoving his boots on, the bros took off to Limburger tower.

*

"Ah, yes," Limburger gloated over the deformed mouse. "The High Chairman will be pleased. He will certainly take a bit more than your ears, young man," he taunted, albeit from a safe distance.

"High Chairman? Wait," Spectre said, taking in one whiff of the fat businessman. "You're Plutarkian!"

"Certainly, my young mouse. But you needn't worry about that. For you see, there is a very substantial reward who brings you to the High Chairman dead and an even bigger one if alive. No guessing which one I'm taking. And then, I will be able to buy myself off this planet and away from those ubiquitous Biker Mice, once and for all. Now," he said, addressing the goons holding Spectre. "Take him down the the lab so he can be held more securely."

The eight-man (and slightly injured) escort led Spectre to the elevator which directly took them to the lab. They were about to put him in one of the holding cells when a sly, wheezy voice addressed them.

"Put him on the table, I would like to view this little troublemaker."

After they had done their job, the nervous-looking henchmen took off out of the lab as quickly as they could without looking rude, before a white-clad, green-goggled, skinny man came out from behind a machine.

"And how are we today, M-2971?" Karbunkle asked.

Spectre took one look at him.

"YOU!" he screamed, but that was all he could say, for just at that moment, all he could see was black.

*

"Very good, my young Ninja. Well done," Limburger said, feeling very pleased with himself. "You shall be rewarded handsomely for your services, hmhmhmhm," he chuckled.

The Ninja stood impassively, hands behind his back, not actually understanding what the fat fish was saying.

"Well, we must make haste. His comrades-in-arms will be here soon. We shall need to transport to Plutark immediately. We..."

He was cut off by the thrum of motorcycle engines closing fast on the building, he looked out the window and saw four lights rocketing down the road, before they crossed the footpath and started riding up the side of the building. He jumped out the way as the four bikes crashed through the window.

"All right, Cheese-face. Where's the boy?" Throttle asked , his deathly voice able to scare corpses from their graves.

"Oh, must you always make such a violent entrance." Limburger ignored the question, brushing shards of glass from his suit. He discreetly made his way over to his desk.

Modo popped his arm cannon and blasted the floor in front of Limburger. "Where is he?" his eye glowing red.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that. However, I will be sure to inform him of your imminent demise. Meet your personal escort to the shadow world, the Ninja," he arrogantly stated, before his desk whizzed on a platform to a lower level.

For a moment, neither party moved. They just stared at each other. One could almost hear a Western theme play, as if to represent a showdown at midday. Then, quick as a flash, the Ninja threw a smoke bomb on the ground and disappeared from view.

"Hey! I can't see a thing!" Vinnie yelled.

"Hit your infra-red, bros!" Throttle called, activating it on his helmet.

"Oh mama, now I can't tell where to put my best foot forward," Modo mumbled.

"Let's dance!" Throttle called.

The guys advanced to where the Ninja was standing, but even with their infra-red, they couldn't even detect a trace of him. Suddenly, the smoke started to quickly swirl, as if someone was rushing through it, and came straight for Vinnie.

He quickly ducked, but was too slow – a blade of sorts scraped along the back of his helmet. Reaching behind his head and feeling the deep gash in the metal, he cursed in Martian and kept looking.

*

Charley parked her bike in the bay that was signed "Reserved – L. Limburger: CEO" in the carpark and dashed through the front door. Walking past the reception desk and into the lobby, she heard some sort of animal's feral scream and the rattling of chains a couple of floors above. Charley vowed one day to undertake similar experiments on Karbunkle in his own lab, but for now she gracefully made her way up the stairs, careful not too attract any attention from any goons who may still be around.

*

The bros were still in Limburgers office, and after totaling anything resembling furniture which the Ninja might be hiding under, they didn't know what else to do. Then Vinnie had a brainwave.

"Bros, lights out!" he called.

Several shots later, all the lights in the room were blown to bits. It was pitch black.

"Now, get the bikes outta here!"

"What?" Throttle asked incredulously.

"Bro, you can't be serious!" Modo protested.

"Off! Bikes, get to the roof!" he called.

All the bikes, including Oblivion, flew out the window they had smashed earlier and skilfully navigated themselves to the top of the tower.

Now, in complete darkness with their infra-red vision, the Mice tried a different tactic. If they saw the smoke from the bomb shift quickly, they would strike before the Ninja could.

It worked on the first try.

In another attempt to try and take Vinnie's head as a trophy, Modo had shot the rope it was using as a swing, and Throttle used his nuke knucks to knock him straight out of the window and into the fountain in the front courtyard.

"Guess you're all washed up," sniggered Vinnie, looking down from the office.

"His skills must be getting soggy!" crowed Modo.

"Looks like he's gonna be in the dog house for a while, bros," Throttle chuckled.

Summoning the bikes back to the room, they raced down to Karbunkle's lab.


	11. Unleashed

Chapter 11.

While initially thought to be an easy task, Limburger and Karbunkle were having a very difficult time in trying to move Spectre to the transporter, still strapped to the exam table. His behaviour was...animalistic, to say the least.

The bros exploded through the double doors of the lab, their guns still smoking.

"Alright Limburger, let him go," Modo sneered, his eye glowing a furious maroon.

A pistol appeared in Limburger's hand and was immediately aimed at Spectre's temple. "I cannot allow that to happen. I'm requiring this rodent to rid me of your repulsive reactions."

Vinnie grabbed a flare from his bandoleers, however the look on Limburger's face told him it was best not to even try a sneak attempt to burn through his shackles. He threw the flare across the room.

It was also then that the Biker Mice saw another side of their new friend.

Rather than being the withdrawn and quiet young mouse, he was instead thrashing and pulling at his restraints so much that they had cut into his wrists, a pool of blood forming on the floor. He was snarling and snapping, as if he had the mindset of a wild animal which had been tortured for months, even years. He was in a state of feral rage, and it all seemed to be directed towards Karbunkle.

So, while the bros couldn't try anything to free him, Limburger and Karbunkle were in a stalemate as they couldn't get near the table to try and move it.

They needed someone to break it. And it came from a very unlikely source.

Charley.

She had collected the flare Vinnie had thrown earlier, set it alight and threw it perfectly at the back of the table, destroying its mechanics. The restraints immediately went dead and Spectre, still in his frenzy, broke free and launched himself at the scientist who had so cruelly played with his mind.

Limburger went white underneath his mask. "No! Noooo!" he cried, as the trio of bikers advanced on him simultaneously.

Vinnie and Modo took hold of one arm each, while Throttle grabbed him by the front of the shirt and brought him face-to-face. "Listen here. No stinking Plutarkian _ever_ takes a mouse back to your rancid home planet. Party's over, Limburger."

With that, the bros took their arch-enemy over to the transporter and threw him into the light, sending him to a distant planet where clouds of pollution lifted as high as the stratosphere.

"Well, that oughta keep him away from here for a while," Modo said, glad to see the Big Cheese gone for a while. He fired a few shots from his arm cannon at the roof of the transporter, putting it out of commission. Limburger wasn't coming back through this way.

Throttle eyed the destruction of the lab and saw Spectre kneeling over someone on a section of wrecked machinery, pummeling them into a pulp. Rushing over, the bros tried to take him off the unconscious Karbunkle, but were instead met with a sudden rush of pain as he thrashed all of them from his body within a few seconds. And then, he left Karbunkle and slowly stepped towards the Biker Mice.

"Talk about no appreciation," Vinnie said more as a statement than a joke. He rubbed his cheek after copping an elbow to the face.

"What are you doing, man?" Modo asked. He was annoyed that he had almost had another tooth broken.

In response, Spectre remained snarling like a wild dog fighting another over food scraps. His fingers were splayed and drool dripped from his mouth. The pointy ears and deranged orange eyes made him a positively scary sight.

Throttle watched him cautiously. Something must have set him off, and judging by Karbunkle's current physical state, he had a fair idea of what it was. He had seen it during the war where soldiers who were prisoners of war would go insane at the sight of a picture or even the mention of a simple word. He needed to try and subdue him but without causing to much damage.

"How are we gonna do this?" he muttered to himself.

"Let me try."

It was Charley.

"No, Charley-girl. You might get hurt."

"He thinks that you're going to hurt him. Just trust me on this, ok?"

Throttle still looked skeptical.

"Last time you said I might get hurt, I got jumped. Now, let me do this!"

He sighed. "Ok, but if he tries to attack you, I'll be forced to step in."

"Charley..." Vinnie started to tense up at the sight of his girl trying to calm some kind of monster.

"You got a better idea, Vinnie?" she asked.

Vinnie shook his head.

The pretty mechanic slowly crept forward, but made sure to keep enough space between them so Spectre didn't feel threatened. She spoke in a low voice, trying not to spook him with too much noise.

"It's ok, no one is going to hurt you. It's me. It's Charley. The lady who helped fix your bike."

The dark brown mouse looked as if he recognised her, but still kept his guard up.

"Try and get control of yourself. You remember me, don't you?"

His eyebrows started to relax a bit. He had stopped snarling and drooling, and he was breathing slower and deeper

"That's it, just calm down. Nothing bad will happen."

She was now an arms length away from him. She reached and placed her hand on his shoulder, then she pulled him closer and moved her hands to his shoulder blades, holding him. She felt his shoulders slump and heard his slightly gasp for breath, as if he had just woken from a bad dream. Pulling away, she looked into his eyes. They weren't like a feral animal anymore.

They were back to normal. _He_ was back to normal.

He looked up to meet her gaze.

"You found me."

After a quick session of 'welcome backs' and 'well dones' it was time to go, but they paused when they heard Karbunkle groaning over the other side of the room.

Spectre closed his eyes, tensed and waited for the blackness to take him again, but he opened his yes and found that he could see fine.

He hadn't lapsed into his subconscience.

Charley saw that he was slightly confused, and stood next to him.

"You're free now," she said.

Spectre paused, and sighed. His dark side which lay inside him for years, was finally gone. Then he thought of one final dig he could do to Karbunkle before leaving the memory forever.

He went to his bike, popped open the grenade launcher and aimed it right at the mad scientists chrome dome.

"What are you doing?" Charley asked, slightly alarmed.

A sly smile spread across his face. "Watch this."

_KER-CHUNK!_

A projectile flew out from the barrel of the launcher and hit Karbunkle in the head, the bottle exploding on impact. A brownish colored liquid splashed all over his white lab coat. Karbunkle dropped back down, knocked out.


	12. Return to Mars

Chapter 12.

After a couple of calls, it was arranged that Stoker was going to come to Earth in the Stalkers ship and take Spectre back to Mars and try to locate any members of his family or clan, and see if there were many remnants of his home village left.

While initially mad at him for stealing their precious root beer and using it as a form of ammunition, they soon created a new game which took off pretty quickly. It was a variation on one of their favourite pastimes 'Brodies and Bottles.'

"Ready, Vinnie?" Spectre asked.

"Yup!"

_KER-CHUNK!_

Vinnie set off the mark in a flash, his boosters burning as he raced to catch up with the bottle of root beer that had been ejected from Oblivion's grenade launcher. The new city bypass had a four and a half mile stretch that was perfectly straight, so before it was opened to the public, the bros thought it would be a good idea to 'test' it's construction.

Pushing Sweetheart's roaring engine to its limit, Vinnie chased down the bottle, closing the gap as it started to lose altitude.

Gravity pulled the glass vessel down.

Vinnie was so close.

At the last moment, he reached out and caught the neck of the bottle and yanked the handlebars, causing the bike to do a sideways skid. He saw the tyre marks left by Throttle, passed them and stopped about five metres from the 'T' marked on the road in chalk.

"Yee-haa! Ride 'em cowboy!" he yelled, before activating his helmet com. "Hey bro! Just kicked your kiesta! Ha ha!"

"Great," Throttle grumbled to himself.

"It's ok, bro. I'll beat him for ya," said Modo.

After a minute or so, Vinnie was back, sculling his root beer in celebration of beating his leader. Modo stepped up to the line.

"Ready, set..."

_KER-CHUNK!_

Modo took off much like Vinnie, but stopped short as he watched his bottle collide with a familiar ship that was coming in their direction. He turned back to try and warn the others, but instead of crash-landing, the ship landed gracefully on the new road.

"Can't be a man driving that thing," noted Charley.

A ramp that formed the belly of the ship folded down and two figures walked out.

Stoker and Carbine.

After the greetings were exchanged, Carbine seemed content to stay close to Throttle while Stoker went over to talk to Spectre.

"I did a bit of research before I came here, but most of the records are sketchy, pal. I'm afraid I can't tell you much," Stoker said.

Spectre shrugged. "That's ok. I appreciate your efforts."

"The next lot of Freedom Fighter punks to be trained won't be in for another month or so. If you want, I can take you to where you used to live. I'm from around that area as well."

Spectre looked at the aged warrior. He nodded. "That would be great. Thank you."

Soon, it was time to roll. Throttle and Carbine gave each other one last hug and kiss while Stoker shook hands with his former protege's. Charley and Spectre took a step back from the action.

"I never really thanked you properly for saving me that night," she said to him.

Spectre shook his head. "No, I should really be thanking you. You saved me. From myself. Plus, you fed me and clothed me. You did what no one else did for me for most of my life."

Stoker whistled, showing it was time to leave. Charley and Spectre hugged each other.

"If this little terrier ever gets damaged, you know where to bring her," Charley said.

"Thank you."

Throttle, Vinnie, Modo and Charley watched as the ship (most likely piloted by Carbine) took off and headed back to their home planet. A planet of red sands, swirling deserts, and Mice.

Vinnie lay back on his bike. "Well, guess I won Brodies and Bottles, huh?" he smirked.

Almost immediately, he was tackled the the other three standing on the highway.

*

Limburger stood in a poncy little maid outfit and mop. As part of his punishment for failing to bring the renegade who destroyed many lives in Plutark, he was forced to make up the entire sum of the reward by cleaning public bathrooms, and park benches in clothing that really didn't suit him well at all. He was also informed that he wouldn't be getting of Planet Earth until all its natural resources had been stripped from its soils.

"I will have my revenge on you meddlesome mice, once and for all," he repeated his mantra to himself, hoping the time would pass just a little bit quicker.

*

It was a few days after Spectre had gone back to Mars. Three motorbikes were patrolling the city around the oil refinery.

"Say, bro...That night where you tried to set a new record from Charley's place to the scoreboard," Modo asked. "How did you go?"

Vinnie looked sheepish for a moment. "Uh, I didn't make it."

"What was that little look for? Hey, that's right. You were getting beaten up by Charley-ma'am. Why was that?"

"I...uh..."

"Is there something you're not telling your bros, Vincent?" Throttle joined in the conversation.

They stopped at a red light, and no way of getting out of this. While Vinnie's mouth hadn't said a word his face told a thousand of them.

"Spill, Vincent," said Throttle.

"Ok, ok," he paused for effect. "Me and Charley are going out."

A series of woots and high-fives went around, before something crossed Modo's mind.

"Why didn't you tell us?"

Vinnie looked pensive. "I didn't think you guys would approve."

Throttle put his hand on his shoulder. "It's ok bro, we're cool with it. In fact, I've won my bet with Modo that it would happen before Christmas this year."

"What?" Vinnie asked incredulously.

The light went green and Modo and Throttle rode off laughing. Vinnie made to take off after them, but stalled his bike, adding to more laughter of his friends.

**T**

**H**

**END.**


End file.
